Yellow Jacket

The world didn't restart, it lunged.

Warren's body twisted mid-breath, not by will, but by the command his mind had issued in the moment the System stalled time. He hurled sideways with force he hadn't braced for.

His spine was still locked in that motion as his mind tried to catch up.

He'd turned to Wren. He'd tried to speak to Styll. He'd sent too much, too fast.

The bond with Styll pulsed like a nerve struck raw, and her tiny body flinched, arched, then tumbled backward with a sharp, broken yelp. A high feedback burst. Like a scream made of memory and pain.

Wren was already moving.

She caught Styll mid-roll, instinct rather than awareness guiding her arms, but her eyes were still wide, not understanding, not yet.

Then Warren screamed.

Not aloud. Not with voice. But in his own skull, where the bond had snapped taut and now flailed like a cable under tension. It recoiled. And hit him back.

His mind folded in on itself.

He saw red.

Then static.

Then silence.

Chaos erupted.

Florence gasped and dove toward the forge wall, grabbing for a medkit. His tools scattered behind her.

Calra shouted something sharp and panicked, already backing up, one hand instinctively reaching for a weapon she hadn't brought.

Deana dropped to her knees, babbling prayers, not even in words, just rhythm and panic, a cracked hymn gasping through shaking lips.

The cats scattered. Whisper bolted under a shelf. Gunner jumped to the rafters. Bastard stood his ground, fur raised, low growl echoing like a warning drum.

Car swore. Loudly. Not in anger, but command. "Wren, is she breathing?" he barked, even as he dove toward Warren.

Wires screeched. Styll twitched.

And Grix?

Grix laughed.

Not mockery. Not joy. Just a low, rattling exhale like someone born into fire recognizing the heat.

"Finally," she muttered, crouching low and wide-eyed, watching it unfold like it was a game she didn't know the rules to, but wanted to play anyway.

"I love when it gets loud."

Warren blacked out.

And the last thing he saw was Wren lunging toward him. Her mouth open in a scream he couldn't hear.

Car's hands were reaching, fast and wide, trying to catch his fall before his head cracked stone.

He almost made it.

Then,

Dark.

It didn't feel like a dream.

It felt like the moment before a crash. Like breath held too long in the wrong place.

Warren stood in a space that didn't exist. Not darkness, but the memory of it. Not silence, but the pressure that comes before a scream.

He tried to move. Couldn't.

He tried to speak. Nothing.

Then someone else did.

"Come along then. If you insist on walking where you're not meant to be."

A voice like gravel poured into rust. Ancient and dry. A shape emerged, not stepped, just was, and the weight that came with it hit like falling architecture. An old man. Bent. Wrinkled beyond reason. Bones like branches. Skin like dry paper, flaking with every shift. Eyes like burned-out suns.

Warren's mind reeled.

"What is this? What am I seeing?"

The old figure chuckled, but there was no humor. Only contempt. Pure and sharp.

"I was told you were special. That you were the eye of the storm. But you're nothing. A wasp. Loud. Sharp. Temporary. Something to be crushed when the stinging stops being amusing."

The air folded. Crushed. Black waves of heatless pressure rolled outward from the old man's limbs, devouring light.

"You think you can take my champion from the board and I would not come for you? Boy. You staggered into a war you do not understand. You blundered into my game like a child playing in ruins."

Warren staggered. The pressure bit deeper. The smoke licked at his skin, tasting him. Not burning, judging.

"You overreach. You wear the skin of something meaningful, but beneath it, nothing. No legacy. No bloodline. No right. Just a scavenger pretending at being a predator."

He stepped forward. The weight of his hate moved like a curse made physical. His next words came with spit he didn't have, hissed through lips that split from the effort of shaping syllables.

"You murdered without understanding. You stole what was not meant for you. Do you think the System elevated you because you earned it? It cracked open for you because you were empty. Hollow things echo loudest, boy. And your echo has reached ears it was never meant to."

He sneered so hard his face twisted like old bark splitting under frost.

"Do you even understand what you killed? That was not a champion. That was my vessel. My voice. A hammer to mold the world, and you shattered it like a child breaking stained glass to see what color it bleeds. They will come for you. You will not stop them. You cannot. Because you don't even know the rules."

Warren forced himself upright.

His mind screamed. But his voice didn't shake.

"I don't know who or what you are. But I ended your champion. And if you send more, I'll end them too. It won't stop me."

The pressure didn't fade.

But something else split it.

A hand. Calm. Radiant.

It touched Warren's shoulder.

Perfect. Warm. Heavy with something that wasn't force but presence.

A voice followed. Female. Strong. Furious in a way only love could justify.

"Well said."

Warren turned.

A woman stood beside him. Tall. Armored. Wings like silver razors arced from her back, still and folded like judgment at rest. Her hair fell in steel coils. Her eyes burned white with fire that had known creation.

He didn't know her.

But some part of him did.

She looked at him with pride, and sorrow.

The Silvered Maiden's gaze didn't leave Warren's face, but her voice snapped like tempered blade.

"The rules demand you begone," she said, turning her head slightly, just enough to address the shadows. "He is still one of my candidates, until I am forced to choose. You will not claim him. Not here. Not now."

The elder's form rippled back into focus, smoke coiling around the edges of his skeletal frame. His face twisted into something between disgust and hatred, teeth bared in a mouth too dry to form anything but poison.

"The rules," he hissed, "also state that you may speak, but he may not ask."

The black mist curled tighter around his limbs. The emptiness near him became sharper, edged with contempt.

"He is not to be given. Not memory. Not meaning. Not even the echoes of what passed through this place."

He leaned forward, the void around him caving inward with the motion. His voice dropped into a tone thick with centuries of rot.

"He is not to keep what he has heard. He is a flicker. A flickering thing. And flickers... go out."

The shadows around him convulsed, whispering syllables that made no sound.

The Silvered Maiden stepped between them fully now, her wings rising behind her like blades unsheathed.

"Then let the rules witness this," she said, every word a command. "He asked for nothing. He only endured. That makes him worthy."

The pressure trembled. The elder's shape splintered again, folding in on itself like flame denied oxygen.

"Be gone," The Silvered Maiden repeated, her tone molten. "You've said your piece. He remains. That is enough."

And with that, the old man vanished.

Like a name no longer spoken.

Like a god no longer feared.

The space cracked.

The old man's presence shattered into ash and forgotten names.

"You won't remember most of this," she said, gently. But her voice shook the smoke. "You've only passed the first threshold. Your mind isn't ready to hold this place."

Warren tried to speak again. She raised a hand and his thoughts obeyed.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"You were able to reach this space because you allowed it. When you let the System build your class, you granted it a key. A link to here."

She stepped closer. The old man's form hissed, retreating to the edges of nothing.

"If you survive to the end, you will understand. It will all make sense. Because everyone who reaches this place was always meant to. There are no accidents here. The System pretends it chooses. But we were the ones who built the way."

Her gaze locked to his.

"You're early. And the early ones burn. That's what you are, Warren Smith, a Bright-Burn. Lit too soon. Bright enough to blind, fast enough to disappear. Most like you don't make it. Most aren't meant to."

Her fingers touched his chest, light and devastating.

"You were supposed to be mine. My chosen. But not now. Not with the path you have to carve. This is not a path I may help you walk."

She turned her head toward where the elder still watched, silent and seething.

"I will choose no champion. Not now. Not with the lines so frayed. I cannot claim you but I will treat you as my own. As much as I can. As much as the rules allow...."

Her hand returned to his shoulder. Firm. Final.

"You will be on your own, my favored one. But know this...."

She leaned in, forehead nearly touching his.

"....I see you. All of you. Even the pieces you've hidden from yourself. Even the parts you think no one can love. I see what you will become. And I am proud."

The last thing Warren saw was her eyes.

And a truth too deep for words, only understood:

He hadn't just been seen.

He had been marked.

Warmth hit first. Not from comfort. From pressure. His head pulsed with heat. His back was cold. Something damp pressed against his ribs.

Warren opened his eyes to colorless blur.

While he was out, the room had barely held itself together.

Car had caught him,barely. The impact had knocked both of them over, Car hitting the floor with a grunt and Warren limp across his chest.

Florence had moved instantly. She shoved everything off a nearby table with one arm and rolled Warren flat onto it, her other hand already on the scanner. Her voice cut through the chaos, short commands, clipped and fierce. "Vitals first. Restraint second. Don't let him seize."

Wren hadn't let go of Styll. Not once. But her eyes never left Warren's face, and when his body began to twitch, she pulled herself up beside him, holding his hand like it was the last thing tethering him to breath. Her other hand hovered over his chest, then his brow, fingers shaking, searching for wounds that didn't exist. When the scan gave her nothing, she whispered something low and old, then pulled a knife from her belt and dragged it across her palm in a jagged arc. Blood welled shining with a blue hue. She pressed her bleeding hand to his chest, triggering Blood Mending with everything she had. Static arced across her skin. Mercy's Cry flared to life in her mind, an echo of the System's replied: No repairable damage detected. Vitals steady.

And still she pressed harder.

The blood stopped flowing.

The wound closed on its own.

The light faded.

But her hand never left him.

Because that was her nature.

Deana had crawled to the far wall, muttering phrases that barely resembled language, bloodless lips whispering old prayers she likely didn't understand. Her eyes locked on Warren like he might still be glowing.

Calra had turned her back to the room entirely, pacing in tight, violent circles. Her hands kept clenching, open, close, open again, like she couldn't decide who to hit or what to blame.

The cats wouldn't come near him.

Even Bastard kept his distance.

Only Grix stayed still, perched cross-legged on the forge counter, grinning like she'd just watched a volcano erupt from a teacup. "He's not dying," she'd muttered to no one. "He's just needs to catch his breath. It hit me the same way the first time."

And then the tremors stopped.

His chest rose again, steady. His fingers flexed. One eye opened.

Then,

Sound came back like a dull blade. Dragging.

"...what did he do?"

"Is he bleeding from the eyes?"

He blinked.

The world slowed. The ceiling spun.

Wren's face came into view, drawn tight, eyes wild. She was speaking. Her hands were shaking. One hovered over his chest. The other was wrapped protectively around Styll, who was trembling but conscious.

Not afraid.

She leaned in closer to Warren, head butting lightly into his ribs, soft and firm. Her tail flicked once. Not retreat. Not warning. Just contact. Still his.

Warren tried to sit up.

Car put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't. You're not synced. Your brain just tried to sprint when you told it to sit."

"I..." Warren's voice cracked like torn fabric. "I didn't mean to hit her. The bond."

"She's okay," Wren said quietly. "Just overwhelmed. But she never pulled back. Not even for a second."

"She's never been hit like that," Car muttered, his face a mix of worry and hard restraint. "Whatever happened in that moment? You were just gone."

Florence crouched at Warren's side, a scanner in one hand, a cold pack in the other. "Your vitals are stabilizing, but you burned something inside. Whatever the System did to you, you weren't built to take it that fast."

"I was," Warren said, voice sharpening, trying to push up again.

Florence pressed the cold pack to the side of his neck and shoved him gently back. "You weren't. Not yet."

Deana knelt a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself. "He transcended. The System couldn't contain him. It had to stop time to understand what he is."

"Deana, shut up," Grix snapped.

The silence that followed was sharp. Real.

Warren looked down at Styll again.

She was watching him.

Then he frowned, slowly, like something just occurred to him.

"It was like... time stopped. When I picked. Not just paused. Like it wasn't moving at all. But I was. I thought things. Just thoughts. And then they happened. All at once."

He blinked again, slower. The memory felt like fog, curling and refusing to settle.

"And while I was out... I think I saw someone. Two someones, maybe. There was an old man. He looked at me like I'd broken something important. I don't know what he said, but he was furious. I could feel it. Not words, just... anger."

He paused.

"And then... a woman. Armor. Wings. Silver and sharp. She didn't speak. She just looked at me. I felt safe. That's all I remember."

No one answered right away.

Florence rose. "He'll live. But if he tries that again without acclimating? He might not."

Grix muttered something under her breath, just loud enough for Warren to hear, though her tone made it unclear if she meant to say it out loud at all. "The one I saw, he spat a smile at me. It felt good. But wrong." Her voice thinned like smoke near the end. She looked sideways at Warren, not directly. "You know what I mean?"

The sound of the storm came first.

Not outside. Not overhead. From somewhere deeper.

Warren opened his eyes, but they didn't focus. The forge roof was gone. The clear blue sky, gone. Swallowed. Rain poured where sunlight had been,impossible rain. Rain inside his head.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

The words Grix had spoken echoed faintly: The one I saw, he spat a smile at me. It felt good. But wrong.

They were all he could remember.

And then, not even those stayed whole. They stretched. Slipped. Warped into more of her nonsense.

Except it wasn't nonsense. Not this time.

Something was clouding his thoughts. Pushing. Pulling. Not just memory, something deeper. Something heavy. It pressed down like presence without form. Like the weight of a voice he'd heard once in a place that shouldn't exist.

Warren grit his teeth. Pushed back. Felt something resist. It wasn't just a fog, it was pressure. Familiar and wrong. Like something that didn't belong here was trying to dig into what was his.

The storm inside him raged, not with violence, but with identity. It wasn't hurting him. It was protecting him. It had always been there. The storm was his.

But something foreign was trying to carve into it.

Something that remembered him with hate.

And it was trying to hollow him out.

Pain.

A scream, not from his throat, but his spine, his skull. A raw pulse like pressure folding him inward. His fingers curled. His breath caught.

He was losing.

Whatever this was, it wasn't physical. It was inside.

And then...

A surge.

Not of strength.

Of love.

A presence crashed through the bond, vast and radiant. Not small. Not soft. Not the gentle patter of Styll's usual affection.

This was fury. This was hers.

She roared.

Not with fear. With defiance. Her voice slammed into his mind, not as a whisper, but as a roar that cracked the dark like thunder:

"Hold on, Warn! I is coming! I is save you!"

The words were still childlike. But the voice wasn't small. It was massive. Ancient. New. Towering.

Something inside Styll had changed.

And Warren felt it wrap around him.

Not claws. Not fangs. Not teeth.

Love.

Raw, pure, impossible love from the first real friend he'd ever had. She didn't know what was hurting him. But she knew he was hurting. And she came anyway.

Tears rolled sideways from his eyes. Silent. Clean.

She held him together.

Not with skill. Not with power.

But with her.

And for the first time since the storm stirred in him, Warren felt its true shape, not a storm that broke, but one that refused to be broken.

And someone stood beside him in it.

And refused to let go.

Chaos returned the second Warren moved.

Florence was the first to scream. "His vitals were normal! Then they dropped,like he was flatlining and seizing at the same time!"

Grix wasn't smiling. She stood frozen, wide-eyed. "What the hell is going on?"

Car swore and stepped forward instinctively, hands up like he expected Warren to collapse again.

Calra's fingers twitched like she wanted to draw something that wasn't there. Even Deana flinched back, clutching a charm that hadn't helped.

And then Warren breathed in.

Not just a gasp. A breath that filled the room.

The forge felt it. The storm heard it. The rain outside caught its rhythm.

And for the first time since he fell, Warren was back.

Wren exhaled and spoke softly. "I think this time he's really here. No more ghost stories."

Grix, too quiet for comfort, corrected her. "God stories."

That hit different.

Warren and Deana both turned to her, sharp.

Deana tilted her head, voice quiet but sure. "So you do believe him to be a god made flesh."

Warren spoke quietly. "Please just shut up and let me think."

She did. Instantly. But the light in her eyes burned brighter.

Warren's voice came low, rough. "All I can remember is what you said. And something trying to take it from me. Something trying to pull it out of my head like it didn't belong."

He blinked.

Then frowned.

"Styll. Where is Styll?"

A voice answered. Not in his head. Not from the bond.

Out loud.

"I is here, Warn."

He looked down. Felt her moving on his chest. He reached up,hands shaking just slightly, and lifted her.

She was still Styll. But changed.

Sleek. Longer. Denser. Her fur darker now, streaked with faint silver down her back that rippled like rainfall in motion. Her claws had thickened. Her frame was built not for speed, but for grip. And her fangs, two long sabers framed her face, glinting faintly in the light.

Her eyes, mismatched: one bright gold, the other storm-gray.

Mist curled gently off her fur, not smoke, not steam. Something denser. Quiet. Protective. She breathed and it followed, rolling out like a living tether.

Florence stepped back. Her eyes widened, hands going to her mouth. "That's not a bond," she whispered. "Bonds don't evolve like that. They don't change their shape. They don't, this isn't supposed to be possible."

Warren held her gently against his heart.

And as the System said nothing.

Because it couldn't see her anymore.

Not as a creature. Not as a bond.

Only as him.

Florence sat down hard, like her legs stopped listening. Her hands stayed clenched in her lap, knuckles white, eyes unfocused. The forge flickered around her like it too didn't know what to believe.

Car knelt beside her, murmuring something low and constant, one hand resting against her shoulder. He didn't ask her to explain. He just stayed.

She wasn't okay. Not yet.

"That wasn't a seizure," Florence said suddenly, voice tight and brittle. "That was something trying to erase him. Like he was being hollowed out from the inside."

Warren turned toward Grix.

"You said the one you saw spat a smile. It felt good, you said. And wrong. What's happening, Grixalia? I need to know."

Grix scratched the side of her neck, eyes darting for a moment. Not evasive, just unsettled.

"When I didn't pick my class the first time, I fell asleep. Or passed out. I don't know. It felt like both."

She shifted her weight. Everyone was listening now.

"And this man, big, tough, handsome as hell, came up to me and… he spat. Just, right near me. Like it was a greeting. Or a curse. Maybe both. Somehow it felt like a hug."

She shivered.

"Still gives me chills. And sometimes, I feel like he's still watching. Like I picked wrong, and he's just waiting to see if I'll fall."

She glanced at Warren.

"When you fought that thing, the Behemoth, it felt like he was there. Watching. He was excited for the fight. Like he bet on you losing. But not because he hated you. Just... for the thrill of the wager. He wasn't mad you won. Just annoyed that he lost the bet."

Her voice dropped.

"But when we killed that mountain, He felt proud. Not of you, maybe. But of the outcome. Like you pushed further than he expected."

She gave a humorless grin.

"I think he likes you, in his own fucked-up way."

Wren broke the silence first. She hadn't moved from her spot, but her voice was steady, her eyes fixed on Grix. "So you saw him before any of this?"

Grix nodded once. "Yeah. Didn't ask for it. Didn't even know it was real."

Calra crossed her arms, shifting her weight. Her jaw was tight, but her voice was gentler than expected. "Why didn't you tell us sooner? You could've said something. To me."

Grix's shoulders rose, then fell with a slow exhale. "Because I didn't want it to be real," she said, voice flat. "And because if I'd told you, you'd have tried to fix it. You always try to fix me."

Calra's mouth pressed into a line, but she nodded. "Only because I give a damn."

Grix smiled faintly. "I know. That's why I'm still standing here."

Deana, still near the wall, spoke softly. Her voice was reverent, almost trembling with restrained joy. "It sounds like a trial. Like the gods placed wagers. And you're the one they didn't expect to survive. But you did."

Warren looked at her, calm but cold. "I believe in the gods. But I don't think they don't get to place me."

Deana lowered her eyes, but the faint smile on her lips didn't fade.

Wren turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing. "If this is a trial, it's not the gods running it. He didn't need their blessing to come back to us."

Deana said nothing, but her silence carried the weight of something else entirely, conflict. Wren was her Lady. Warren was her god. And in this moment, she didn't know which truth to kneel to.

Car spoke next, voice low, almost casual. "If the gods are watching this closely, it means someone's getting nervous."

And for a moment, no one spoke.

Warren looked down at Styll, still cradled in his arms, her breath slow and sure against his chest. Around him, the forge held its breath, Florence stunned, Car steady, Grix and Calra trading glances that meant more than words, Deana burning silently in her corner.

He looked at them, this fractured, volatile, stubborn mess of people.

This family.

And he laughed.

Not loud. Not cruel. But true.

Because not even the gods could stop the storm that was building inside him.